


still haven't developed antibodies to your smile

by ceserabeau



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Dry Humping, Like literally right after, M/M, Post-Inception
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-23
Updated: 2015-06-23
Packaged: 2018-04-05 17:38:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4188867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceserabeau/pseuds/ceserabeau
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I forgot how slutty you are when you’re drunk.”<br/>“You like it,” Eames singsongs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	still haven't developed antibodies to your smile

**Author's Note:**

> I don't even know what this is. Title from Jeffrey McDaniel's _The Benjamin Franklin of Monogamy_

“You know, darling,” Eames says as Arthur propels him into the apartment with a warm hand on his back, “You’re really quite charming when you aren’t being a sourpuss.”

Arthur makes a noise like he’s rolling his eyes. “Thanks – I think.”

“It’s a compliment,” Eames tells him as he crosses to the window, peering out at Los Angeles glittering below them. “I mean, obviously you’re charming. Anyone as good-looking as you has to be charming.”

The words tumble out unbidden, and for a second Eames regrets them. It’s one thing to flirt over drawing boards and blueprints, but saying things now, in the calm after the job, when the adrenaline has worn off, both of them coming down from the high of what they’ve just achieved, is something quite different altogether.

But behind him Arthur just makes an amused sound. “You’re drunk,” he says as he locks the door.

Eames snorts. “Nah,” he says, like Arthur didn’t watch him drink most of a bottle of wine at dinner. He glances towards the kitchen where he knows there’s another one open on the counter. “At least, not yet.”

Arthur’s footsteps sound, and his hand lands heavy on the back of Eames’ neck like a collar, like a brand. “You should go to bed,” he orders, and steps away before Eames can sway back into his grip.

Eames tamps down on his disappointment, instead kicking off his shoes, shedding his jacket. When he turns around, Arthur’s gaze drops to his chest, where the thin fabric of his shirt is stretched tight across his muscles, tattoos a dark shadow beneath the white. Eames watches the flush crawl up his neck before he finally looks away.

“Go to bed,” Arthur says again.

He goes to walk away, but Eames says, “Wait, wait,” and Arthur does. He lets Eames creep in close and fist his hands in the lapels of Arthur’s jacket. “Thanks for letting me stay here.”

Arthur’s eyes fall to his hand and he raises an eyebrow. Eames knows he means to look unimpressed, probably disapproving, but if anything it seems fond.

“Well, I wasn’t going to let you stay at a hotel,” he says, entirely calm, like he’s aware of what Eames is thinking. “What kind of friend would that make me?”

Eames grins. Then he uses his grip on Arthur to spin him and shove hard, sending him stumbling back through the doorway to his bedroom and further, until he hits the edge of the bed. Eames keeps going, keeps pushing, until Arthur drops down into the cushions and Eames can settle on his lap, knees tight around Arthur’s hips, using his weight to keep him in place.

Arthur freezes under him. “Eames,” he hisses, but his breath stutters, tell-tale. “You’re drunk.”

Eames curls his hands over Arthur’s shoulders, slides them up to palm his neck. Under his fingers, Arthur’s pulse is pounding. “When has that ever stopped us before?”

He means before Mal’s death, before Cobb and his craziness drove Arthur away, before inception brought them back onto each others’ radars. Not quite a relationship, but working up to it if the way they curled around each other at night was anything to go by.

Arthur’s jaw works as he clenches his teeth. “This is a _bad_ idea,” he says, but his hands wrap around Eames’ hips, gripping tight.

Eames just smiles and grinds down a little, lets Arthur feel where he’s hard against his stomach. “You mean this?”

“Yes,” Arthur gasps, even as he bucks up under Eames’ weight.

Eames’ smile turns smug. He slides his hands from Arthur’s shoulders, and Arthur watches raptly as Eames unbuttons his shirt slowly. When he reaches the bottom, he shrugs once and it slips from his shoulders, pooling around his elbows.

“What about this?” he murmurs, and leans back to show Arthur the long line of his torso, the sharp lines of his muscles, miles of tanned skin decorated with ink.

Arthur’s hands slide up the soft skin of his waist to clutch at his waist, fingers spreading over the tattoos there. “That too,” he says, and squeezes like he wants to push Eames away but can’t quite do it.

Eames’ gaze flickers between his hands, his mouth, his eyes. “So this,” he says, and reaches out to cup Arthur’s jaw, “Must be really bad.”

Then he’s kissing Arthur, tongue sliding over his lip, across his teeth. He tastes the coffee Arthur had after dinner, the sweet tang of his dessert, and beneath that something purely him that Eames chases desperately.

They stay like that for a long minute, pressed together tightly, before Arthur’s hands dig in hard enough that Eames pulls back to look at him.

“You going to tell me to stop?” he asks, and licks his lips slowly to watch the way Arthur’s eyes track the movement.

“You’re drunk,” Arthur says again, but he doesn’t protest when Eames leans back in.

It’s nice, Eames thinks, the feel of Arthur against him, around him. They haven’t touched like this in a long time, too much distance between them, but it’s the same as Eames remembers. The two of them still fit together right, easy, rocking together like teenagers, just the right side of frantic.

Eventually the pressure becomes too much, and Eames has to reach down to unzip his pants, the back of his knuckles brushing against the hard line of Arthur’s dick. The fleeting touch makes Arthur pull back, panting, hips rolling up as he clutches at Eames’ back.

“What do you want?” Eames asks, rubbing more deliberately this time. “My hand? My mouth, hmm? Come on, love, tell me.”

Arthur blinks at him, eyes glazed. “Just – this. This.”

“Really?” And Eames slows down his hips, rocking too lightly for there to be any friction. “Like that?”

Arthur sees it for what it is. “Don’t be a tease,” he growls, and suddenly his hands are between them, pulling both their cocks out and wrapping a tight hand around them. “I meant like _that_.”

Eames’ fingers dart down to curl around the muscles of Arthur’s wrists, pulling them up and out to trap them against the bed spread. “No,” he tells him, and rises up, shuffling forward a little until he can reposition himself on top of Arthur, his cock rubbing wetly along the cleft of his ass. “You meant like this.”

Arthur resists for a second before he relaxes, lets Eames bear him down onto the mattress. Then Eames props himself up on one elbow to use for leverage, pushing back onto Arthur as his own cock slicks against the hard stretch of Arthur’s abs.

“Feels good, doesn’t it?” he whispers.

Arthur nods, leaning up to press his mouth to Eames’ almost reverently. “Yeah,” he breathes. “Yeah, Eames, you know it does.”

It brings a smile to Eames’ face, something soft and quiet that he hasn’t been able to use in a long time. “Missed this,” he says against Arthur’s forehead; “Missed you,” he says against his cheek.

There is no answer, just a frantic whine slipping out between Arthur’s teeth. His hips buck up and Eames inhales sharply as Arthur’s cock presses against his hole, pressing forward, just as Arthur’s hand falls to his dick, and with one stroke Eames is coming between them, streaking Arthur’s chest all the way up to his chin.

He collapses a little, forehead dropping to Arthur’s, who just groans beneath him. “Come on,” he says, tongue sliding out to slick his bottom lip. “Eames, I need – come _on_.”

Eames quietened him with a thumb of his lip, slick beneath his touch. “Relax, darling,” he says; “I’ve got you,” and he slides down to the floor to take Arthur in his mouth.

 _Oh_ , the heady weight of him, the sharp bittersweet taste of pre-cum as he thrusts over Eames’ tongue. Eames could curse himself for ever giving this up: Arthur going silent the closer he gets, his mouth falling open wet and pink, and at the pressure of Eames’ finger against his hole, he comes, shooting straight down Eames’ throat.

In the quiet that falls, Arthur’s harsh pants seem to echo. Eames stares at him for a long moment, wonders if this is a first or a last, then rises to go find something to clean up with. When he comes back, Arthur is still lying there, chest heaving.

“Alright, darling?” Eames asks as he wipes them both clean.

Arthur lifts his head, drops it back down, grits out “You –” before he trails off into silence, gaze fixed somewhere on the ceiling above them.

Eames nudges him. “What was that? Me what?”

“Shut up,” Arthur says. Then after a moment: “I forgot how slutty you are when you’re drunk.”

“You like it,” Eames singsongs, although he thinks it’s less about the alcohol and more about his proximity to Arthur that causes it.

When he lays back down, Arthur rolls towards him and Eames opens his arms wide, lets him settle with his head against Eames’ shoulder, leg thrown over his hip.

“Stay here,” he says, mouth moving wetly against Eames’ chest.

It doesn’t sound forced, but with Arthur Eames can’t quite be sure. “I can sleep in the other room,” he says placatingly. “I know you like to spread out.”

Arthur shakes his head slightly, whispers “I want you to” like a secret.

Eames noses at his hair and pulls him closer, wrapping him up tight. “Anything for you, darling,” he says, and feels Arthur smile into his skin.


End file.
